Red Shoes
by Jay Nice
Summary: Dean tries his best to give Sam a good sixteenth birthday, but has no funds, no job, and Dad's away. But at the end of the day, it may turn out to be one of the best birthdays Sam's ever had. Well... that's what he hopes.


**Here's my fic to celebrate Sam's birthday! Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

Sam's sixteenth birthday consisted of a broken, out of tune acoustic guitar, red, converse sneakers, and half of a cake declaring brokenly "It's a B—"

In all honesty, he was slightly disappointed when Dean was unable to get him real presents, but he understood. Even though Dean never vocalized it, Sam knew that the Winchesters had about five dollars to their name right now. Dad was off two states away taking care of a vamp nest or something, and Sam was caught up in the middle of exams at school. Dean had been searching for odd jobs, but was still yet to find anything that will give him enough cash to pay the rent. They barely had any food left, and Sam hadn't failed to notice how the portions on Dean's plate kept shrinking, while Sam's stayed consistent.

Sam didn't want to sound like a baby or anything, but he had truly hoped that his birthday would bring some better times.

May second was right in the heart of end-of-course exams for Sam, so he spent his birthday in a classroom testing on his AP Chemistry class. Which totally sucked, because he hated that class. He'd spent all of last night studying, and literally _nothing_ he'd studied was on the exam. Just his luck. Really, all Sam had ever wished for was to bomb an exam on his birthday. He walked back to the motel after school, a headache growing behind his eyes from all the stress. All he wanted now was to lay down and take a well-deserved nap.

However, Dean had a different idea for him.

* * *

No money, no job, no Dad… Dean was beginning to wonder if anything could go right.

Well, one thing had to be right. It had to be perfect. It was Sam's sixteenth birthday, and he somehow needed to manage to give his brother the best Sweet Sixteen ever. However, that was hard to accomplish when he had exactly $6.82 left jangling around in his pocket. There was no way he could afford a gift with that, so he headed to the town's local bakery to see if he could scrounge up to cash for a cupcake or something. Lo and behold, sitting right there in the display window was a small, round cake, priced at four-ninety-nine. It was tiny, plain, and perfect.

Walking inside, Dean headed to the counter and voiced his request. "I'll have the little cake in the window," he said, pointing in its direction.

The sweet, cherub-like lady smiled too thinly and nodded, heading over to grab the item of appeal. "Boy or girl?" she asked, setting the cake down and grabbing an icing tube.

Dean frowned. "What?" he asked.

"I suppose it's your mother expecting," the woman replied idly, "so which is it? Boy or girl?"

Dean chuckled. "Uh, no, no one's expecting, this is for my brother's birthday—"

The woman sighed in exasperation. "The birthday cakes are on the other wall," she declared. "This one's for a baby shower."

"What?" Dean said again, confused. "But it's just a plain cake, the sign said nothing about it being a baby shower cake. Is there even such thing?"

"Yes, and this is it."

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. He knew that he wouldn't be able to afford an actual birthday cake, and the cupcakes he saw only came in sets of twenty, which were way over-budget. "Can't you just write 'Happy Birthday' on it instead?" he tried.

The woman pursed her lips, a little sarcastic smirk lacing her lips. She was mocking him. "I'll only write 'It's a Boy' or 'It's a Girl,'" she stated. "Any other messages will be extra."

Dean sighed, frustration growing with every second. "Just…just don't write anything on it, okay?"

"Extra."

"What?!" Dean exclaimed, throwing up his hands. "How is it more expensive if you don't write the stupid message on it?!"

"It's a baby shower cake, hon," she said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Now, boy or girl?"

"There's _no_ extra charge for the baby shower crap, right?" Dean clarified, trying to make sure that he was going to be able to stretch out his cash as much as possible. If he had some money left, he might be able to snag Sam something from the dollar store.

"Yup." The woman grinned in supposed victory. "Need I repeat my question?"

"Boy, I guess." Dean bit his lip as the text was drawn with swirly, alternating blue-and-pink lettering. He inwardly groaned, knowing that Sam would be revolted by the girlish scrawl. Maybe he could scrape it off when he got back to the motel and somehow reconstruct the icing into a birthday message.

The woman boxed the small cake and rung Dean up. "$5.43," she declared, holding out a pudgy hand for his cash. Dean winced—if he did the math correctly, he had $1.39 left—but forked over the necessary money, spitting out an insincere "thanks" as he left the little place with his cake in hand. Sam deserved _so much better_ —heck, he deserved that whole bakery's stock of baked goods. He was sixteen for crying out loud! He deserved a freakin' _car_ like most kids his age would be receiving. Instead, he got a brother who couldn't even afford a decent cake, much less an adequate birthday present, and a dad who was out risking his life, though he probably spent most of his time getting drunk in rusty old bars. Dad hadn't spent a birthday with his boys since Dean's eighteenth two years ago when he'd handed him the keys to the Impala. This year would be like all the rest; Sam and Dean together, celebrating alone.

Checking his watch, Dean figured that it was only about noon, so Sam wouldn't be home for a few hours. Dean took his time trekking back to the motel, in no hurry to get back to the damp, rotten place. This section town was bad, nearly every house was a simple shack, and Dean was pretty sure that he'd witnessed a drug exchange a few blocks back.

The whole walk, Dean was attempting to formulate what else he could do for Sam. One measly cake wasn't near enough for his baby brother on his friggin' _sixteenth birthday_. He could nab something from the corner store, but he'd promised himself years back, when he could start working, that he would never do that again. He was trying to figure out what could be bought with the meager funds he had when he nearly ran into a bedraggled man waving a pair of red sneakers in his face.

"You wan' some new shoes, don' ya?" he asked, voice gruff and slurred. Dean could smell the booze on his breath.

He was about to reply in the negative, but he looked at the shoes closely. They were actually new—possibly Converse, though his judgement of clothing brands wasn't quite accurate—and a nice and deep shade of red. A whiny complaint from Sam suddenly rung through his mind: _"I swear, all Dad does is pick up the first pair of hunting boots he sees. No one wears hunting boots!"_ All Sam had ever wanted was to be normal. He wanted a normal family, a normal lifestyle, normal everything. Normal shoes were a wonderful start. And they were actually in style, the robust color bright yet not over-exaggerated. They were also new, which meant they weren't some extinct, retro shoe brand. Dean had seen some kids Sam's age wearing similar shoes, so he took a deep breath, hoping he was making the right decision.

"Yeah, I do," Dean said.

The man smiled, revealing many dark holes where teeth might have been years ago. "How much ya got on'ya?"

Dean's heart sunk. This man, obviously in need of some hard cash to support his alcoholism or drug habits, wouldn't accept his $1.39. You couldn't even buy a bottle of MD 20/20 with that much. Instead of backing down, he said, "Enough."

The man clucked his tongue. "S'rry kid, I need to hear an amount."

Dean shifted for a moment, contemplating his options. "About a buck or so," he admitted, unable to think of anything else to say.

The man chortled, throwing his head back with the force of the wheezy laughter. "No can do, ya need to off'r a bit more moola than that."

Dean frowned, fists clenching unconsciously in growing frustration. "That's all the cash I've got… There's nothing else I can offer you?"

The man hesitated, looking Dean up and down before his hungry gaze rested on the package in Dean's hand. "What's in th' box?"

Dean's eyes widened, shielding the cake from the man's view. "No, this is for someone else," he argued, not prepared to give this druggie his hard-earned cake, even if it wasn't perfect for the situation.

"I'll strike ya a deal." The man stumbled a bit closer, hot breath nearly steaming into Dean's face. Dean swallowed roughly, trying to keep his stance even in the uncomfortable situation. Dean nodded, egging the man on. "You give me yer cash and half of whatever that is, and I'll think about givin' ya these shoes."

"Give me a guarantee," Dean said. "I give you your request, I get the shoes."

The guy stepped back, shrugging laxly. "Yeah, sure," he agreed, then held out his hand. "Now fork it over."

Dean sighed and dug his hand into his pocket, pulling out a crumpled bill and a few miscellaneous coins and putting them in the man's eager hand. He then opened his cake box, thoroughly wondering if he was doing the right thing. And for some shoes. But they looked expensive, and if Sam decided he hated them, Dean could probably sell them for a sum of cash. Using the tiny knife that the bakery woman had left in his container, he cut the cake down the middle, just to the left of the "B" in "Boy."

"Who's havin' a baby?" the man asked intrusively, then chuckled asthmatically at his own rudeness.

"Here." Dean shoved the requested piece of cake into the man's hand. "Now the shoes?"

The man, now $1.39 richer and holding a large chunk of Dean's cake, shook his head. "Not quite, pretty boy. You think my dealer's gonna take this in exchange for a fix?" He smiled condescendingly. "I don' think so. Now, throw in that pretty watch of yers and we'll talk some more."

"No way," Dean interjected, cradling his left wrist in a defense mechanism. The watch was yet another gift from his dad, and not one he would be willing to give up lightly.

The man began to unsteadily saunter away, sensing Dean's growing scorn for him. "No deal then," he called.

Dean was tempted to take out his Glock and shoot this guy with his clip of silver bullets, but wisely decided against it. It would solve nothing, and when Sammy asked where Dean got those shoes only for his brother to respond, " _Got them off a dead druggie's hands, you like_?", he doubted that would provide for a good birthday. "Wait!" he yelled after the man, slowly and dutifully unclamping his watch. "You give me the shoes, it's all yours!"

From afar, the man's eyes lit up hungrily. He licked his discolored lips and nodded. "Sure, kid." He held out a grubby hand. "Gimme 'da pretty watch, and yer mommy can have these here shoes."

Dean stiffen a bit at the man mentioning a mom—probably assuming the cake was for his mother—but didn't let his discomfort show. Slowly, he held out his watch—the most expensive thing he owned—and said, "Just don't pawn it off for some Mary Jane, you got me?"

The man, no longer listening at this point, hastily threw the shoes at Dean before bouncing off with his money, his cake, and his watch. Dean had to fight the urge to run after the guy, demanding his watch back, but he didn't think causing a ruckus would solve anything. With his luck, the moment he threw a punch, the patrolmen would come a-stomping and cuff up the "rough around the edges" kid who was beating up a homeless, old dude. Same song, different verse. It had happened too many times before, and Dean wasn't wishing to spend the night in a cell tonight. _Especially_ when it was Sam's frickin' sixteenth birthday.

Curse this town. Curse Dad for not leaving enough money and being gone for Sam's birthday. Curse Winchester luck for never allowing anything good to happen. Curse _Dean_ for having been so stupid as to trust a guy itching for a fix.

In the motel parking lot, Dean was about ready to scream at the world for being so cruel and smash the remainder of his cake on the pavement. But he didn't; instead he controlled his rage. He may not have had much, but at least it was something for Sammy.

Though not enough.

An idea struck him when he saw a old, well-worn guitar sitting right outside his motel room. It was missing three strings and had a large crack in the body, but it looked playable. Dean had taken minimal guitar lessons, but he knew the strings and basic notes. If he was lucky, he may be able to pluck out a tune that could vaguely resemble "Happy Birthday."

That's where he was when Sam returned home from school that afternoon. He was figuring out the fingerings to something that may have sounded like the birthday anthem, but to Dean its low drones were sounding like the tripped-out guitar from _When the Levee Breaks_. As much as he admired Jimmy Page, some of his guitar solos were seriously messed up. And though he absolutely _loved_ Zeppelin IV, Sam didn't, and he'd much rather get an actual birthday song than a poor imitation of one of the greatest rock stars of all time. Dean was hoping that his discordant pluckings would meld together beautifully, but the crappy guitar had other ideas. Oh well. Hopefully the song would be a bit recognizable.

And, dang it, he would have hired all of those pop hair bands that Sammy loved if he'd had the money. Dean was _pretty_ sure that Sam had a huge celebrity crush on Steve Perry, so if they had that kind of funds, Sam would be singing his heart out to _Oh Sherrie_ for days to come. But no, the now-sixteen year old was stuck with his brother who couldn't even find money enough to get him a decent cake and gift.

It was only slightly embarrassing when Sammy returned home, though, to hear Dean humming _Faithfully_ under his breath. Sometimes he got in the mood for something other than Black Sabbath…

Needless to say, Sam looked like crap on toast when he walked in through that door. He was washed out, had dark bags under his eyes, and looked just exhausted. If Dean remembered correctly, he'd had some huge test today, so it was no wonder he looked as if he'd just woken from the dead. However tired and lethargic he was feeling though, his eyes lit up when he saw Dean sitting on the bed with an actual cake—or, well, _half_ a cake—beside him.

"Dean?" he asked timidly, voice low. Dean internally chuckled at the fact that his brother was sixteen now, yet still had the disposition to sound as if he were ten.

"Happy sixteenth birthday, Sammy!" Dean chanted, an ever-growing smile on his face.

Sam's grin was small, yet sincere. "Dean, you didn't have to do anything…," he tried arguing, but Dean shook his head.

"Of course I did. What kind of brother would I be to let my baby brother have a crappy birthday?" Dean winked at Sam as he started picking the notes to his song. Sam rolled his eyes in only the way that a petulant little brother could.

"I hope you aren't going to do your John Lennon impression," he quipped sarcastically.

Dean gasped in mock horror, flaying a hand over his heart. "You wound me, brother." And without further ado, he began singing the low notes to _Happy Birthday_.

So yeah the notes were massively screwed up, and Dean was no American Idol, but the message got across and Sam was smiling in appreciation when the song was over.

" _Haaappy birthday toooo yoooouuuu_!" Dean finished with a wide grin, holding his arms out as if to welcome crowds of adoring fans after his magnificent debut performance.

Sam chuckled a bit. "Don't quit your day job."

Dean scowled. " _You're_ one to talk, you can't even hold a single note! I'm sure Metallica will be calling me any day now to join their lineup!"

Sam rolled his eyes again. "Sure Dean, sure." Dropping the subject, Sam's eyes flickered to the cake. "Is that for me?" he asked slowly. "And…why did you eat some without me?"

"Long story," Dean said, not wanting to delve deep into the story of how exactly he'd acquired the cake and birthday gift that was to follow. "Now come on, Sammy! It's delicious, if I do say so myself."

The cake tasted like cardboard with icing on it, but it was still cake. Dean knew that Sam was enjoying it, and distantly he hoped that the old druggie would appreciate it too. Sam didn't question the writing on the cake, thank goodness, but he probably thought that Dean had stolen it.

After cleaning up their plates, Dean sat giddily, waiting to reveal the gift. He hoped to high heavens that Sam like them. If not, he may be able to sell them or something to get Sam a real gift.

"I didn't have time to wrap them," Dean started, "but I hope you like them enough."

Sam's eyes widened when he spotted the shoes. Dean held his breath. "Whoa, Dean, these must have been crazy expensive!"

Dean smiled. "Only the best for my baby bro."

"Do you think Dad will let me keep them?" Sam asked, attitude sullen. He huffed. "Probably not. You know how he feels about these stupid hunting boots."

"Screw Dad, he ain't here," Dean countered. "I got you those shoes, and I'll be damned if he doesn't let you wear them!"

Sam's grin was wonderful. "Thanks Dean. Really."

Dean ruffled the kid's too-long hair. "It was nothing."

Sam's eyes slowly traveled up Dean's arm to his left wrist. He swallowed past a lump in his throat before asking, "Dean, where's your watch?"

 _Crap_. Dean looked to his wrist as if he hadn't noticed it was gone. "Huh," he muttered, almost to himself. "Must've forgotten to put it on this morning." The lie was smooth, flawless.

Sam still looked uneasy, but he conceded to the fabricated truth. "Okay."

Two weeks later, Sam and Dean were on the brink of eviction from their motel when Dad came back, all guns and glory. He had bought Sam a birthday present while he was away, some book he'd been raving over for the past few months, and they drove away, heading to Nevada. But what Sam never failed to notice is how Dean kept forgetting to put his watch on every morning. A sinking feeling always rose in his stomach when he saw Dean's bare wrist, and every time he looked at his red shoes, he was reminded painfully of the lengths Dean would go for him. They were brothers, and they would do anything for each other, even sell their most prized possessions.

* * *

 **Eeh... I don't like that ending, but oh well.**

 **Let me know what you think! And happy birthday to our beloved Moose, who is now a whopping 32!**


End file.
